TAKING THE TROUBLE

I walked to your back door last night and saw two legs standing where mine might have been. I panicked, stepped backwards down the stoop steps, retreated to the side of the house and plotted. Then I knocked on your door. “Are you coming?” I asked. You were confused, drunk, shaken by his visit — but smiling. “How are you?” I asked his beard. “I’m coming from behind my mask,” he said. “My ass,” I thought. You said you’d be along shortly.